


Prima Nocta

by AlightHere



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aristocracy, Dominant Armitage Hux, F/M, London, Patrick Bateman who?, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24007792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlightHere/pseuds/AlightHere
Summary: Armitage Hux, aristrocrat, playboy, dines on London's finest dishes. You are the flavor of the week.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Reader, Armitage Hux/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

The porters at his flat are all white, and most of them are even English as well. This in itself blankets the building with an enormous sense of security, less because of their role than their being - nowhere this rich could ever be unsafe from outside harm. They smile when they see you, always in an almost-familiar, paternal fashion. You say hello to them and sometimes make conversation while waiting for the lift, so they know you don’t belong here. Still. It makes a change. 

The way you can tell he is old money - no, not  _ old _ money, but ancient money, money raked from the backs and babes of serfs, not slaves, not laborers, not “the market” - starts with the flat, tastefully located a stone’s throw from Soho and Westminster alike, the perfect precipice of sex and power: two sins he indulges in, it seems, for a living. What he actually does for pocket change isn’t clear, but it involves hurriedly rushing in to the City in stiff suits. On late mornings he heads for the Jubilee line, which you find strangely affirming, as though it is a populist blow against the hyperinflated meter of a black cab. 

Armitage Hux is not the kind of man who calls an Uber, whether for himself, or, as you have had the displeasure of finding out in the small hours, for you.

* * *

The two of you met entirely by accident early in your postgraduate career. You’d been harangued by your cohort in to a classic “great British night out” and were suffering the consequences, sat off looking miserable in the window of a Peckham pop-up that only served Tarantino-themed cocktails or something like that (they all blend together after a while). You’d been called away from the mandatory fun by a rapping on the Plexiglas shopfront, and there he was.

Tall, gaunt, attempting a smile that looked more like a sneer. He had bright red hair, it glittered coppery, augmented by the autumn sunset. He stiffly wiggled his hand, which only registered as a wave after the fact. Still, this was a new variety of London creep, and if nothing else, would make for a good half-anecdote at the next chinchilla-themed cafe or whatever you were dragged towards.

You slipped away from the group unnoticed in the din of the bar, and joined him on the pavement.

“Armitage Hux,” he said, crisply, a little too loud, direct from the diaphragm. “I was making my way to the station when I saw you in the window. Enchanting. Would you be so kind as to have a drink with me - somewhere a bit less...?” He left the last sentence unfinished on a upward lilt, but you knew what he meant. A bit less Peckham, a bit more - 

“Where did you have in mind?” you’d asked, as though his answer was really going to make or break this for you. This man was strange, definitely, but he had the bravado that only comes from money, so at the very least, you could drink for free - a much better option than the £14 D’Mango Unchained (mango juice, rum, simple, lime, the menu boasts).

“I know a lovely cocktail bar in Mayfair that should be very cosy around this hour. Does that fit the bill?” 

It isn’t really a question, so you don’t really give him an answer.

“Mayfair? Do you work for Gazprom?”

“My dear,” he said, more patronising than endearing, “if I worked for Gazprom, I would just  _ buy _ whatever pretty woman I found to my liking. There’s no fun in that, is there? So. Will you join me, or am I to find some other little tart on my evening walk?”

“I’d like to say yes,” you said, “but I wonder if it would be more fun if I said no?”

“Definitely not. Come to Mayfair. You’ll like it. Everyone does,” he said, in a final tone. 

So you went.

* * *

Months later, you would ask him what he, of all people, was doing in  _ Peckham _ .

“Normally, I try not to venture south of the river,” he’d replied, “but I make the occasional exception for a good hunt.” 

You’d laughed at that, a low, shallow laugh that comes more from being in on the joke than the joke being funny. Most of his jokes were like that: intimations, invitations to a elite social circle of those who were  _ in on it _ \- what exactly it was, you weren’t sure. That would take longer to figure out.

In those first few months he wasn’t mean-spirited, not right away. He was careless, of course, like when he made you deepthroat him in the bath and you got an inkling of what drowning feels like, or when he cut the sleeve of your dress and neglected to offer you a jacket in December. But these are just things that rich men do, not because they are evil, but because they are careless. They have never needed to be any other way. 

  
No, Armitage Hux is not evil  _ because _ he is rich. That is coincidence.


	2. Chapter 2

The flat you two spent most of your time together was massive, London standards notwithstanding. Two floors, a balcony overlooking Soho to the east, two bedrooms, a study, an entertaining room, towering bookshelves, and, of course, all mod cons. 

For a few months you assumed he was just a pristine, fussy man. It was not until you let yourself in to the (always) unlocked flat and found him passed out on a divan surrounded by a semi-circle of cracked glasses and fragrant spills that you realised he had help.

He often complained about the help. He only hired native English speakers - “useless if they can’t understand instruction” - and seemed never to be satisfied with the result, anyway. 

This mess, by his standards, was modest. He was fond of lavish dinner parties to which you were never invited, and raucous afterparties, to which you often were. It was a fool’s errand to pretend you belonged at these events, so you dressed and made yourself up with the quirk and arrogance of the south London precariat; brash, decadent, tastemaking. You were admitted on merit, not birthright. A hair out of place - or a dress out of date - and that invitation could be revoked.

Armitage didn’t particularly seem to care what you were wearing, though, as long as it was reasonably simple to undo.

You rarely ended up in bed together on those nights, though. Maybe a lazy fuck on the floor, maybe him passed out and you checking if the Overground was still running past your place. 

Still, those early few months were exciting - here you were, researcher by day, courtesan by night. Your proficiency with concealer grew exponentially. You made new excuses to dip out on obligations, to forgo certain outings, certain friendships, certain opportunities. Increasingly, your schedule, your world revolved around a paltry baron with a habit of overspending his income.

The morning after one of those nights when you stayed over, though, was warmed by a crisp winter sun against grey sky. You’d woken early, not bothering to move silently, instead making full-throated use of the massive bathtub. Your flat had a shower cubicle.

Your body was still recovering from the events of the last week - tender spots, some purple, others blotchy green and yellow, dotting the body at random. A shadow fell across your chest. He was in the doorway.

..

The look he wore blurred base lust and blue-blooded disdain. He gestured to your form, half-obscured by the water.

“You like this, don’t you? No, don’t answer that, there’s no need,” he cut you off before you began, “all you women are the same. God, all this faffing about your workplace rights and your shrill self-righteous speeches, but once the doors are shut, you can’t wait to be tossed around like - like some kind of chew toy.”

“That’s a very progressive view, Armitage,” you answered, unphased, “ and a very positive attitude to half the species. Are you a dog in this analogy?”

“I’ve been called worse, darling. And of course I love women, I love the feminine, I love,” he waved his hand at you, lounging in the cooling bathwater, “I love this, the odalisque.”

“So you love women when they’re for your consumption?” you asked.

“Obscenely and to excess,” he purred, before turning and padding towards the kitchen, and, as always, his stock of good (though not great - “one shouldn’t get too spoiled”) whisky.

“I’m sure you’ll be singing a different tune when your folks marry you off,” you raised your voice loud enough to be heard, and from the other room you heard him laugh in acknowledgement, though not enjoyment. Glasses clinked toward you accompanied by soft footsteps.

He handed you one, setting the half-full bottle on the tiles, and perched himself on the rim of the tub.

“Oh, I’ve no intentions to have anything to do with domesticity, and god forbid, children. You, though, once you get your head on straight, you’ll make a good mother, and, if you can keep up your current pace, a decent wife.”

“What makes you say that?” 

You didn’t really care to have it answered, but a question seemed better than silence.

“Any woman who can put up with me for long is more than ready for the pains of childbirth.”

You obliged with a toothy smile before knocking back your glass.

It was after his fifth glass of whisky that he suddenly sat up, stock straight, and turned his head to stare directly into your eyes, gaze fixed and near robotic.

“I want to rape you.”

It was after your third glass of whisky that you blinked, processed, and briefly considered.

“How?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably note that I wrote this to Process Some Feelings about an ex of mine so like, if you're here for a romance I am not your gal


End file.
